Village News: What They Said

For those unaware, Friday, June 24th, and Saturday, June 25th, were Dairy By-Product Daze in our fair village, all in honor of Dairy Prevention Month.  Now, events happened on Saturday, but business took me away from things as my wife was participating in the "Rock 'Em, Sock 'Em Robot" Challenge Run.  So, I can only piece Saturday's events together from fragments of conversations that I did not have on Monday morning.   This is what I heard.

Saturday morning started well enough.  Dairy By-Product Daze was well underway, though quietly.  The air on this morning was all cow.  Well, there may have been touch of dew (yes, dew does have a smell.  You know, dewy: fresh soil, reconstituted lawn clippings.  What?  Didn't anyone else earn an income robbing graves?  Okay, moving on.).  Otherwise, the air was all manure and cow piss.  (You really can not beat fresh country air.). Our ever-vigilant police force had nothing to report, at that point, though there was a little disturbance reported around bar close (2:30AM) Friday night/Saturday morn; a noisy gathering in the parking lot of The Stumble Down, an adult beverage establishment on Main Street.  When police arrived, the small crowd had already dispersed, and there was no sign of any gathering.  There was also no need for tazers or excessive force, either.  Oh well, the officer on the scene did talk with those who called in the report, and they might have mentioned something about our dark visitors with the white stripe on their fringe (remember: clothing, no other reason).  Who said that?  I can not remember.

Oh well, I heard from Sven Golly about another event that occurred on that beautiful, albeit, "cow"-filled morning.  The event may related to the night before, who knows; all we have is speculation and innuendo; so spread it far and wide!  Our ever-vigilant police were called to a disturbance in another parking lot.  (Anything familiar?)  The lot was near the shiny, but formidable Fortress of Basic Learning, and the police found a body!  Yeah, you heard me, a dark, lifeless body - in the school parking lot!  By the time Officer Laurel Order had made the corner of Lime and Sunshine Lane, our two fringed visitors (remember them?) were observed hovering over the body.  They were kicking, prodding and jumping on the body, in fact.

"Scout's Honor," Sven Golly offers the salute.  At which point, Sven told his gathered crowd, "Officer Lauren Order pulled the car over and called for backup."

Sven continued that one of the fringed ones screamed repeatedly, and very loudly.  "It put the hairs on yer arm on end," that's what Sven said (oh, did I mention that Sven was actually up north fishing at the time and did not witness the event but heard about it from his neighbor Matilda Schutz).  The scream incited the rest of the visitors' kind, the ones that have already set up homes here in our fair hamlet or, at the very least, would rummage through our trash bins.  There was so much crying and shrieking that the echoes off the surrounding buildings that the crowd became an angry mob of hundreds, perhaps thousands.  In fact, all those gathered in that parking lot on that morning began to dance around the body.  The whole thing turned into an orgy, ending with everyone taking off and flying away like charcoal dust cloud.  (Fitting for Dairy By-Product Daze, don't you think?).  That's what Sven Golly said, anyway.

Oh, and John "Fuzzball" Martin mentioned another body.  The Trumpet, our village newspaper, ("covering all the news, and nothing but the news, so help us, libel courts.")  offered a simple statement: body found.  It was buried deep on the 7th page, somewhere under the report on pot belly futures and the obituaries.  (I know: Outrageous!  I mean, it's become a cliche: dead body, front page or lead story on the "Telly."  All told in constant repetition.  That's right, simply say nothing but contribute to the noise and the ensuing hysteria.  Erase whole shows from the daily programming just to say, "Hi.  Look at me!"  <sigh>. Sorry, I digress.  Where were we?)   Oh yes, John "Fuzzball " Martin found the Editor-in-Chief of The Trumpet at Dairy By-Product Daze under the Drink and Wobble Tent with an...um...adult beverage in hand.  He asked the Editor-in-Chief about why the news item was not found on the front page in bold print as demanded by the Secret International Club for the Design of Increasing Circulation.  The Editor simply said, "Ummm....uhh..... I know, um, Dairy By-Product Daze.  Yeh."  That's what Fuzzball said.

Oh , and speaking of the members of the local chapter of the Secret International Club for the Design of Increasing Circulation, SICDIC, Stan Stumble mentioned: "usual boring, sensational great!"  Of course, this secret member of the local chapter may have been forced to admit that the group might not have any international affiliations and might have an image problem due to a really crappy name (the locals simply call the group: "Sick Dicks.").  They may also have to face the fact that the village police were called to investigate the loud "party" at the club's exclusive, secret, "no girls allowed" clubhouse on Saturday night.  Oh, that particular police report will be printed in bold type on the front page.  How ironic!   (or am I just using "ironic" in the same fashion as that song by Alanis Morrisett?).  Polly "the Pest" Newcomb called the police.

Oh, here's the news item from page 7 of The Trumpet, bottom of the page just 6 lines under "Edward Ennui: A Celebration of a Life Well Lived":

"Body found at parking lot near Fortress of Basic Learning.  The body had been separated into its major parts: head, arms, legs, torso.  The body parts were covered in a plastic jumpsuit and discarded like a child's toy upon the sidewalk.  The parts were then run over by a device similar to the hovering machines used to harvest parts of the lawn that are given to the God that Eats Green Things.  Citizens having any information about this case, or anyone who happens to know a villager by the name of G. I. Joe, are asked to call our vigilant police department.  Thank you."

What a weekend for celebration and strangers!  At least, that's what Molly Morehouse said.

Village News: Keeping My Eyes On You

Previously posted in Facebook Before Philando Castile

As if it wasn't bad enough this summer that we have had to keep our eyes peeled for members of the notorious Metrosexual Gang, I have also noticed something else disconcerting - two new arrivals had come to town.  Yes, you heard me - new arrivals.  Please stay calm, everyone.  Our ever-vigilant chief of police also spotted them immediately on their arrival, and he has assured me that he has been keeping an eye on them (and whatever else he can throw at them and make stick).  I know that some of you have become uneasy with the stranger level in our village (it has been high this year, especially after the white invasion of this past winter), and perhaps some of you have been calling on our elders to indefinitely suspend the parade season (Memorial Day through Labor Day, including but not yet pertaining to our Great County Fair, Dairy By-Product Daze, and Falling Seeds Festival for International Day of Raining Seeds), but I urge restraint in the face of this potential dilemma.  Besides, what would we do with the bass drum, three snare drums, four trumpets, saxophone, clarinet, fife and kazoo that currently reside in our high school's dustbin?  And what would we do with ourselves when we are not trying to rid our days of the chores (that appear around the house like dust particles) - go fishing and visiting our local adult beverage establishments?

Anyhoo, the two black strangers (which I will now dub them because of their costumes and not for any other reason) arrived in town in spite of our best efforts with the Metrosexual Gang.  Apparently, the two black strangers made a great deal of noise, a ruckus, a stir up, a row, so much so that they broke our precious noise ordinance (into 37 pieces, which is not easy because our noise ordinance was tough!).  The two black strangers have no respect for our rules; that is all there is to it.  I suppose they are no different then the chrome and rubber visitors that roared up and down Main Street at all hours of the day, prancing on two legs.  But the two black refuse to speak a word of English.  They simply open up their fringed black coats  and shriek at you.  Disturbing!

Our Village Police Chief noted that there is a difference that separates our two dark visitors from their companions that have already set up homes here in our fair hamlet or, at the very least, rummaged through our trash.  There are white stripes running horizontally across on the fringes of their costumes.  Oh, and Rudy Red Nose (our village drunk...oh, I'm sorry I was just informed that we can no longer use the word "drunk," we must refer to Rudy as permanently, bottle and balance-challenged) has noticed that these white stripes seemed to place a quality of dominion over those already in our midst.  Such an observant old (or is he young?  Hard to tell with all of the cough tonic he consumes) man.  Since they have been under the watchful eye of our Village Police, these two dark strangers have been sighted in our most sacred of places - in trees, on parking lots, our trash cans, and even on our cars and trucks.  (For God's sake, people, use your garage!  They will be on our boats, jet skis, four-wheelers, and snowmobiles next!)

In other news, Village Police are still on the look out for the one dressed as "The Fuller Brush Man."  He still evades village scrutiny.  Remember!  If you do happen to spot him, do not approach, call Village Police, as the suspect is still considered armed and fabulous--eh, I mean dangerous.  Thank you.


Previously posted in Facebook

Mister C

Mister C came to see us today.
He said we were good girls and boys - hurray!
He said he'd give us a treat
If we got on our feet,
And he would not even make us all pay.

We were all very quiet in line.
We all took our turns, did our time.
And when we did eat,
It was all very neat,
Til someone stood up with a chime.

Said the small boy, "Have you not heard,
That Mister C is really a bird?"
And suddenly with that,
Mister C was a bat,
Chewing he said, "How absurd!"

--17 July 2016

The Maestro Performs

I spend some time around kids obviously.  The ones closest to my heart are the ones that don't quite fit into the crowd; it can get them into trouble.  I can't say the name here, but this piece is for this one particular child.

This day was special: the sun was shining very brightly, and the warmth of spring baked down upon the winter-weary earth.  You could see something in the way he walked across the roadway: proud, steady, head held high, chin up, and perhaps he had a prance or trot deep within his body.  This day, he wore his backpack (no backpack was going to rule this day).  He was in absolute control; yes, his public awaited his arrival.

He stepped up into "his space," looked about at all the seats that surrounded him and filled the "hall."  Without a doubt, this was his time to shine.  He sat down on the edge of his seat in perfect performer's form, back straight, no slouching.  He waited for his perfect moment, and then began.

As he and his audience passed the little supper club nestled into the bottom of Horace Hill: "Yo, yo, yo, yo," Up a scale; "meow, meow, meow," down an arpeggio or two.  Then, in pure angelic voice with clear, round tones came the lines of "Silent Night," his prepubescent voice giving light, glowing wings to the carol.  It floated about "his space" like fog in a light breeze in the bright morning sun, delicately touch the stocking cap heads held captive.  It was perfect for a white, crisp morning in February.  He stood up perfectly straight as a proper two by four and watched the last of his Christmas hymn disappear into the brightness of the day.  His first act, in the greatest concert ever performed, a success.

But wait!  Something was amiss.  Was that a conversation?  He cleared his throat loudly to say: how rude!  And then, there was a hand on his shoulder.  How dare the stage manager come out on to the stage and interrupt such a sublime moment of bliss...oh, wait.  It was the bus driver.  Sit down?  How dare?!....oh, alright.  The concert had just begun; there would be more.  And as the scenery outside the windows changed from country/woodland to a small subdivision on the edge of the village, it was the moment for his next great fete.

"Oh, say, can you see? By the dawn's early light?  What so proudly we made past the dwellings nearby..."

Ah, our National Anthem...as could only had been rendered by our fair Maestro, true, artful,...bold.  Wait, the last few lines...

"Oh, say, does that star sprinkled lantern yet wave, or the land of the trees and the home of the brave".  Is that it?  Wait.  "Oh say does that star sprinkled...."  Yes, onward!  "--lantern yet wave, or the land of the trees and the home of the brave."  And now, for the roar of the adoring fans.--

"Oh, man!  Enough.  You can only listen to it the first sixteen times!"

Perhaps, it was time to break out the piece of resistance, an aria from the little known Italian Commedia Del Arte Opera composer, Manfred Smellini, "I Must Fart Before I Explode."

"Fee-da-crizzi, da-mora-Penza, I must fart, I must fart before I explode!!  La la menni keelli, Must fart, must fart, I will explode.  I exploded-ed."

It was brilliant, such virtuosity.  Mozart, Hayden, Puccini, Verdi, and Rossini would have approved of such a wonder.

"You're so weird."

His audience rose out of their seats, then simply left.  Bah!  What do critics know?  It was a special day, and you could see something in the way he walked across the roadway.

28 February 2016. Roy Edward Power

The Army of Angry Trees

The school district for which I work is one of the largest in the state, not in terms of population but in terms of area.  We cover 250 square miles of land; I would guess that 85% of that is rural, both farm and scattered woods (lots of hills, we are in bluff country after all.).  So, it stands to reason, there's a bit of wildlife hiding along and/or running across the roads in the school district.   There are the usual culprits: rabbits, raccoons, squirrel, possum, deer and turkeys.  But, specifically in and around my bus routes, there are wild creatures that only exist along the roadsides: the wolf turkey (largest species of wild turkey), the Blue-eyed Ditch Donkey (somehow related to deer but possess a laser like glowing eye of blue color), and the Angry Tree.  

Now, for anyone who does not know about angry trees, they are terrible beasts that sit among the fence lines and hide in the small woods scattered about the bluff country.  They usually exist in small packs of six, referred to as an army.  They will, sometimes without warning, descend upon unsuspecting humans and vehicles with flailing limbs, the attack can only be labeled as rude and vicious.  They act similar to a voracious pack of coyotes, and are charged with more property damage than any other creature in the district.  No one "round dese parts" knows why, but they claim a collection of six rogue armies of angry trees were the cause of the disappearances of the tiny villages of Snow's Corners and Ottman's Bluff in the late '50's.  I was almost half way through my fifth year of driving for Ellsworth before I made my first encounter with these scary creatures.

I was at my third noon route stop when one of the 100 million, spudillion cows that boarded the bus that day informed me of a most terrible thing.  (Yes, the fact that the large number of cows not only got on the big, yellow limousine, but they all fit inside, and the fact that the one talking cow was a boy not a girl were not the worst of things at that moment.  -Also, please, dear reader, do not tell any of the timelords, whom you may or may not have an acquaintance, about my bus; they will take it away as being a tardis that no human should have in their possession.)  No, the bad news was simply that we were being followed by an army of angry trees which were trying to bash up the bus with their whip-like limbs.  I screamed,"hang on to something!  We are going for a ride, people!... I mean herd!"  And the herd heard that, and away we went.

Around the sunken ravines and up, then down the steep sides of the narrow valleys, we wound our way through the countryside, eventually floundering our way through the Yard of Metal Things.  We managed to dodge a hay baler in an effort to save the whole bus from the angry trailing trees, careening off the back corner of the farm implement and leaving a scrape along the side of the bus.  We thought we lost the angry army as we made a quick turn on to one of the tiny township roads, but when we noticed a second encroaching army, one of the cows mentioned the "Bumpy Bridge."  Now, what I know about cows (and kids) is that they do not name things for the same reason an adult does, so when a herd names something, like "The Bumpy Bridge," it has to mean something.  (Besides, who am I to argue with a cow, even if one is a boy?  They know the territory better than any of us non-grazers.).    So, I slammed my foot on to the accelerator.

I felt like we were heading toward the church bridge from the Washington Irving story; yep, I was Ichabod riding hard to safety.  The bus sidled from side to side on the frozen road (Of course this story happened in the winter!  Drama, people!).  At one point, the back tires came off the road and the bus bowed down into the ditch along the side of the road.  But holding the road, the bus made contact with one of the angry trees causing a domino/bowling pin effect on to the entire blocking army.  Directly in front of us, free and clear, was the Bumpy Bridge and we made the edge of the bridge.

At that moment, we were all in the air, the bus, the kids, and me.  This was painful, for I was belted in and the restraint pulled hard on to my midsection.  But when I looked at the kids/cows suspended in the air with arms/legs extended, they were all filed with sunshine and lollipops.  I realized that they named the bridge not because it was a landmark but a moment in time when they all first learned to fly.  The moment was gone as soon as we bounced back on to the road with a hard bang and went back into the air.  We were airborne for good.  I looked down to see one of the trees splintered all over the road and the remaining trees snarled in a huddle around the debris.

The rest of the trip was peaceful and sunny.  With everyone of the herd on the bus, we glided into school unharmed.  Now, how do I explain the scar on the side of the bus?

7 February 2016.       Roy Edward Power

He Strikes Again?

A bit ago, I mentioned a game the kids would play on my bus, the Foot Game.  I tried to discourage this game by mentioning a troll who lived under the steps of the bus.  Well, it had been quite some time since I had last seen or heard of the beastie.  I had been pondering this creature for a while again, as is my want on a drab gray day.  I was wondering how he was getting along in the cold, whether the troll had found a mate and settled down to start a family, or whether this friend from under the steps hibernated during the winter months or not.  Well, he reappeared, or shall I say, things started to disappear.

On Tuesday of three weeks back, I received a phone call looking for a single mitten left on the bus.  On the second Monday, someone asked about a missing stocking cap left Friday previous.  On Thursday of that same week, someone asked about a missing cell phone.  And then this past Wednesday, a parent came to the front door of the bus wondering if I had seen their son's very expensive gloves.  And someone called about a bag.

I was concerned, needless to say.  I have stuff left on the bus all the time.  I find it, stash it; yet these things stay on the bus for weeks, some times, months.  Some times, the abandoned articles find their way back home, but most of the time, they get tossed or given to someone else.  Last year alone I removed four whole grocery bags (the paper kind) from the bus.  If you think that is bad, there is a whole room at school devoted to lost items.  Every time you open the door, this room throws clothes and bags and forgotten treasures at you and the hallway like Fibber McGee's closet.  (I know, "Gee, how old are you, old man?").  But now, we were talking about things simply disappearing.  (Eek!  It's the Bermuda Rectangle!)

I searched the bus, but I have, so far, found no sign of the missing items...except perhaps, a guilty looking dust bunny.

7 February 2016.  Roy Edward Power

Christmas on the Bus

'Tis the season for joy, gift giving, and....wait for it....(drum roll)...wait for it....tada! (cymbal crash) sugar!  Hey, if you don't believe me, just read the box.  You know, the one right in front of you.  (exasperated sigh) The box firmly planted directly under your nose and filling up your entire field of vision with the out of focus pattern of red, green, white, gold and silver blotches.

As this past Tuesday was the school district's last day before Christmas, I was getting buried under a pile of boxes and gift bags filled with delicious morsels and envelopes stuffed with gift cards to local fast food establishments.  I was hoping that a magical gift card to a local adult beverage establishment would appear, but alas, I must keep dreaming.

Anyhoo, I steered the bus up an icy, white hill.  (Yes, snow finally came to the great white tundra.)  I slid nicely to the end of a driveway.  Three little backpacks with legs marched on to the bus, two brothers and one cousin.

The first one got on to the bus with the biggest, toothy grin that he could fit between his ears.  His smile was so suspicious that he had no hope of joining the angel choir.  He thrusted a neatly wrapped present directly into my face.

"Merry Christmas," he said and went by to find a seat.

The second, also with the same disturbing smile, did the same.

"Merry Christmas," said he, and brushed by me.

Then, the third did the same, but with a smile more appropriate for a jack-o-lantern than a boy of first grade, as he was missing a couple of prominent teeth.  However, when he pushed the gift right into my face, I noticed that his present looked as if it had slept off one awful bender and the wrapping would have blow off if I had sneezed.

"Merry Chrithmuth."

All three found a seat and sat together, all foreheads, noses, and eyes staring directly at me.  And yes, those "I'm about to cause trouble" smiles still beamed from behind the back of the seat in front of the imp brigade.  I watched them the entire trip to school, but the only thing that occurred was several choruses of "Robin laid an egg, the bat mobile lost a wheel, and the Joker got away.  HEY!"

We arrived at school no worse for the wearing.  I opened the bus doors and said my "thank you's" and "Merry Christmas's" as each student disembarked.  As the wonder trio passed by, they displayed their smiles and sheepish waves.  I could no longer handle it, so I grabbed the youngest of the triad as he was always the last of the three in a row.

I asked, "what on earth are you three up to?"

The little jack-o-lantern admitted, "Well, before we got on the buth thith morning, granpop told uth that Thanta would haf ta watch uth on the buth and dethide whether he wath going to come to our houth on Chrithmuth Eve."

With that, he took his smile and his backpack and went into school.  After that, I had to try and find his granpop's phone number.

Originally posted on Facebook 12/23/15.   Roy Edward Power

#schoolbuskids